Interference

Shortly after his purchase of “Scatter Brains,” Mr. Holroyd appeared at a popular meet of the Harriers, got up in unimpeachable boots and breeches, but somewhat spoiling the effect, by carrying the prescribed ashplant. He and his mount were critically scanned by the sporting community—who sat ranged along the top of a low wall, bordering the road, and subsequently pursued on foot.

The grey horse was unanimously approved of, “passed,” and pronounced to be a grand one and a goer, and invidious comparisons were audibly drawn between him and an old “Stageen,” on which another gentleman was mounted. All at once, a shrill gossoon exclaimed, as if announcing a most portentous discovery:

“I have it, boys! May I never ate, bite, or sup, if it isn’t Clancy’s grey.”

“Clancy’s grey,” echoed another voice, “that he has been striving to sell this two year and more! Oh, the poor, innocent, young English officer!” then in a louder key to George, “Don’t be riding too far from a churchyard, yer honour!”

“Is there a doctor out the day?” enquired a third pleasantly.

“Mother av Moses! why didn’t ye bring your coffin with ye?”

So far “Clancy” (as he was called, the other name being too suggestive) had been behaving amazingly well, merely snorting and glaring and prancing; even as they trotted up the soft green fields to draw the furrows, he only moved as if stepping upon hot bricks, with now and then a sidle and a squeal. But once the hare was found, and there was a bustle, and a rush forward at a narrow razor bank, with a big gripe on the near side, he cocked his ears, and practically took leave of the field, as if he had urgent private affairs, going at racing pace, and carrying his rider over it before he had time to breathe. He soon outpaced the furious huntsman, and the fleeting hounds, lastly the hare, and was making with all speed for his stable at Bridgetstown. He jumped very big, and appeared to know all about it, and as the fences seemed sound, George sat down in his saddle, and let him have it with the ashplant! A wilder career was seldom seen. “Clancy” tore along like a thing possessed, flying over hedges, till they seemed to whizz past. Once or twice, he landed on his nose, but struggled up in a second, and was going again as hard as ever. Cuckoo, Betty, and Denis, posted on a neighbouring hill, with an old red spy-glass, watched his headlong course, with breathless interest.

“There he is in Hourrigan’s land, and now he is over Murphy’s boundary,” shouted Denis slapping his leg; “that horse would win the Liverpool if he was put in training!—why, he is making for those boggy fields near the canal. He had better mind himself. Whew! there he goes in plump, that will cook his goose, and unless I am much mistaken, he will lay down his knife and fork!”

George had been prepared for this emergency, and had taken his feet out of the stirrups, and when his somewhat blown hunter skimmed a low bank, and landed in what looked like beautiful green grass, but was really soft treacherous bog, he was off his back in an instant. “Clancy” struggled madly, snorted and panted with fear, but the more he struggled the deeper he sank; in a very short time he was up to his girths. “You want a lesson, my friend,” remarked his master, calmly lighting a cigarette. “A nice condition my boots are in! You must learn that this unpleasant state of affairs is the natural result of running away, and that it is my turn now.”

At length, when the grey was completely exhausted, and had subsided so much that his situation began to be a little precarious, his owner had compassion on him, and he and Denis, and a couple of labouring men, with ropes, helped him out, a shameful, pitiful spectacle, a black horse with a grey head! He appeared to feel his position very keenly, skulking home along the edge of the roads with his tail tucked between his legs, as if saying to the hedges, “Hide me!”

After this experience, “Clancy” became a comparatively reformed character, and merely amused himself with prancing, and plunging at the meets, and subsequently making an example of the whole field.

The Major discovered, to his intense disgust, that his stepson had got a wonderful bargain—a prize he was resolved to secure for himself on that young man’s departure. “Clancy” was well aware that his new owner was a strong bold rider, who was his master; and, although he was by no means a mount for a timid, elderly gentleman, he was a mount for a brave young lady, and Miss Dopping’s old face lit up with keen delight, when she saw Betty Redmond, sitting squarely on the grey, as he clattered up the town, escorted by George on the Major’s dog-cart mare, and Cuckoo on the blacksmith’s pony. The grey was a rare fencer in a big country, and sailed over everything that came in his way, with equal satisfaction to himself (for he had a craze for fencing) and his rider; his performances with the foxhounds were noted by “The Man at the Cross Roads” in the Irish Times, and the Major took extraordinary credit to himself, as he attended the meets on wheels, and flourished his red silk pocket-handkerchief, and pointed out his purchase to his friends, saying in his loud hoarse voice:

“You see old Tom Malone has an eye for a horse yet.” (All the same, Tom Malone had never been credited with this particular class of eye, at any period!)

“Look at that grey my stepson is riding. I bought him, and dirt cheap too. He can make a holy show of every horse in the country; he is a chaser, that’s what he is, and would fetch three hundred any day. Eh? What? What?”

George, with his hunter and his gun, was now frequently absent from Ballingoole, staying in various hospitable country houses with recent acquaintances, with relations of brother officers, or with hunting men. His mother was gratified; she “liked to see her bairn respected like the lave.” The Major was gratified from other reasons, and the only person who was dissatisfied was Belle. Was her prize to be snatched away from her, by the hungry, scheming mothers of anxious marriageable daughters?

Or would absence make his heart grow fonder of her—or of somebody else?

Early in February, the meet of the Runmore foxhounds happened to be a central one, and within two miles of Ballingoole; this was always one of the great events of the season, when all the population, gentle and simple, turned out en masse. The labourers had a holiday, the townspeople closed their shops, and every jaunting car and ass’s cart in the parish, took the road to Drubberstown Cross. Even Belle, who hated fox-hunting, secured a seat in the Mahons’ wagonette. The Major was mounted in his dog-cart, George on the grey, and Denis on an elderly, but excellent black mare belonging to the priest. Cuckoo and Betty (who knew every yard of the country and always evinced a most active interest in the Harriers) set out at an early hour in Mrs. Malone’s donkey car; indeed Betty had had a narrow escape of figuring at the meet, with the bath-chair at her heels, but Belle had not allowed her mother to develop the idea. As long as George Holroyd was in the country, the old lady must forego such carriage exercise. Astute Belle had gathered that he disapproved of her turn-out, so Betty and Cuckoo had driven off in a little village cart, behind “Mookieanna,” a well-fed sporting donkey—all three being in the highest spirits. The young ladies had laid their plans with much discrimination, and resolved to relinquish the glories of the meet, and to go instead, and take up a strong position, from whence they would be able to see the subsequent run—if run there was. They drove straight to the Hill of Knock, on the side of which lies a neat gorse patch, a sure warrant for a game fox. Tying Mookieanna to the gate, they walked up through three large bare fields to the cover side, and then discovered, to their intense disgust, crowds of country people assembled close to it, smoking and joking, round several large fires, awaiting the arrival of the hounds.

“It would be hard for them to find a fox here to-day,” exclaimed Betty, breathless and angry.

“Faix, and so it would, miss,” calmly assented Mike, Mrs. Redmond’s handy man and gardener. “Sure, didn’t I see a brace of them break out of it this morning, with my own two eyes, but I’m thinking, maybe himself is in it yet.”

“There is no use in staying here,” said Cuckoo scornfully. “They won’t find here, and will go on and draw Coolambar Hill. We have plenty of time to run across to it; it’s barely a mile-and-a-half by the short cut. Mike, do you take home the donkey, he is tied below at the gate.”

And the two girls girded up their dresses, and fled down the hill, an exceedingly active couple. “They ran like hares,” to quote admirers round the cover fires—they climbed, they jumped, they struggled through hedges, with the ease that came from youth, and health and practice. As they were about to breast Coolambar Hill, Betty paused suddenly with a dramatic gesture, and said:

“Hush! Cuckoo. I hear them; they have found!” and sure enough, their listening ears caught the distant whimper of hounds, now giving louder and louder tongue.

Betty’s cheeks were scarlet with excitement, and even the pale Cuckoo was moved.

“Here, Cuckoo, climb upon this wall,” said her friend, dragging her forward as she spoke, and nearly pulling her arms out of their sockets; “we shall have a splendid view.”

And on the top of the wall, they stood hand in hand, panting from their recent run, with their eyes eagerly bent on Knock cover. Yes, here come the hounds streaming down, half-a-dozen little white specks, then the whole pack, then half-a-dozen horsemen, then the whole field.

“Mike was right, you see he was at home after all,” said Betty, “but oh! he has been headed off by those sheep; he won’t come here, he will go for Bresna Wood, six miles away, if it’s an inch.”

The hounds passed in full cry, within two fields of the girls, closely followed by the huntsman, a steeplechase rider, and a spare-looking whip, on a bony chestnut thoroughbred.

“Here is George,” cried Cuckoo, triumphantly; “he is coming into this field. Does not ‘Clancy’ jump beautifully?” as the eager grey negotiated a razor bank, between two deep though narrow ditches.

“And just look at this man—riding jealous”—as another horseman came at the same fence at racing pace.

“Why it’s Ghosty Moore!”

The words had scarcely left her lips, when a catastrophe cut short Ghosty’s career. His horse, already blown and over-ridden (but willing) took off too far, failed to kick the bank, and fell back into the near gripe, with a loud exclamation from his rider. He and his horse were both completely lost to sight; they had disappeared as suddenly as if the earth had swallowed them. A shrill yell from Cuckoo, piercing as a steam whistle, caused her brother to turn his head, and he beheld her running down the field, waving her arms like a windmill gone mad.

Of course he must stop; he pulled in the grey with considerable difficulty, for Clancy was bent on pursuing! He would be furious if some nonsense of Cuckoo’s cost him what looked like the run of the season; he turned his horse, and galloped up to her.

“What the deuce is the matter?” he demanded impatiently.

“A man,” she gasped, “a man has been killed,” pointing to the ditch, from which there was neither sound nor sign.

George was on the spot in another five seconds, and saw four shining, kicking hoofs, turned upwards, and heard a sickening groan, as of one in mortal agony.

Here was a nice fix! Some fellow under his horse, that horse jammed fast in a narrow gripe ten feet deep, and no one to help him, but a couple of girls!

The hunt had passed to the left—swept on with the inexorable determination of foxhounds running a burning scent: already there was not a soul to be seen, for only the hard riders had come this way—the less keen had taken to a convenient lane. George was off the grey, and down in the ditch, as quick as thought. If he could only get the horse lengthways, he might manage to drag his rider from under him, but this was impossible, single-handed. It looked a serious business, and there was no time to be lost.

“Come down, Cuckoo, like a good girl,” he said coaxingly, “come down, and give me a hand. There is no fear of you. I’ll take care of that.”

Cuckoo peered down with a ghastly face, and saw the struggling iron shoes, the blood upon her brother’s gloves, and heard half-stifled moans of anguish.

“I daren’t, George. Oh, I daren’t!” and she began to cry.

“I dare, I am not afraid,” said Betty, scrambling hastily into the ditch beside him; “only tell me what I am to do.”

“I’ll manage the horse, if you can move the man,” returned George. “Just put your hands under his arms, very firmly, and hold fast, and when I give you the word, pull with all your strength—now.”

The experiment proved successful. Mr. Moore was luckily a very light weight, and George Holroyd was a strong man, otherwise he would have remained much longer at the bottom of the ditch; but as it was, after several attempts, these two good Samaritans got him out between them, and laid him on the grass—a truly ghastly object; his head, which had come in contact with a stone, was bleeding profusely; his white face was streaked with blood, and he seemed to be insensible.

George took off his coat, and folded it up into a sort of pillow for the sufferer, then he produced his flask, and endeavoured to pour some of its contents between his closed teeth.

“He is dead! Ghosty Moore is dead,” shrieked Cuckoo, and she ran up the field giving vent to a series of agonising screams; she had no nerves whatever, and the sight of blood made her sick and terrified. Yes, even the bold and saucy Cuckoo! she was as useless as the grey, who, with streaming reins, grazed greedily along the hedge row, sublimely indifferent to the fate of his companion, who was struggling in the adjacent ditch. Presently George went down and righted him, and got him out, a limping terrified spectacle, and then he said to Betty, who had been trying to bind up the wounded man’s head with their handkerchiefs: “Some one must go for help at once, either you or I!”

“There are no cottages near this, and Ballingoole is four miles off. You had better go; you will go faster,” she returned promptly.

“But I don’t know the way,” he replied.

“There is a lane at this gate, and if the gate is locked, try a corner, there’s sure to be a gap, and then turn to the left, and keep straight out.”

“You are certain you don’t mind being left here by yourself?” said George, pouring some more sherry down the throat of their unconscious patient; “you seem to have made a good job with the bandages, but I am afraid his arm is broken, and he seems in a bad way—a very bad way.”

They looked at one another gravely.

Supposing he were to die, with no one by him but Betty?—for Cuckoo had actually left the field, and was nowhere to be seen.

“You must take your coat,” said the girl, “and place his head in my lap; it will answer as well, but before you go, bring me some water in your hat.”

“Here it is,” he said, speedily returning with his dripping property. “And I’ll fix his saddle for you to sit on, instead of this wet field.”

“No, please don’t,” she vainly remonstrated, “there is no time to lose, you must not think of me.”

Nevertheless George thought a good deal about Betty, as he galloped into Ballingoole, in search of Dr. Moran. What a brave girl she was, remaining there alone, with, for all they knew, a dying man. She was just the sort of girl to stand beside one at a pinch; now he came to think of it, her face was of the heroic type. As to Cuckoo! he scarcely dared to let his mind dwell on his shameless hysterical young relative, whom he presently overtook proceeding homewards at a kind of shambling run.

“Cuckoo!” he called out sternly, “I am ashamed of you.”

“I am going for help,” sobbed Cuckoo, who was what is known among the lower orders as “roaring and crying.” “Is—is—he dead yet?”

“Go to the first cabin you come across, and borrow a door and a blanket,” shouted her brother, and then pushed on, and was so expeditious, that within an hour the wounded man had been removed from the scene of his accident, and conveyed home carefully in the charge of Dr. Moran. Augustus Moore, nick-named “Ghosty,” on account of his white face, lint locks, and spare figure, was the eldest son of Colonel Moore of Roskeen, a county magnate, who possessed not only lands, but money. He had been accustomed to see Betty Redmond ever since she was a small child, and he liked her, but something stronger than mere liking awoke in his bosom, when he came to his senses, and found himself lying with his head in Betty’s lap at the foot of Coolambar Hill. He was so stunned, and bruised, and weak, that he firmly believed that he had entered on his last hour; but Betty’s presence cheered him. She bathed his face, moistened his dry lips, restored his confidence, and gave him heart in one sense, whilst she took it away in another.

As he lay there, helpless, between sod and sky, with her sympathetic voice in his ears, her sweet anxious face bent over his, he made up his mind, that if he lived, he would like to marry Betty Redmond. This was a curious coincidence, for George Holroyd, as he walked home beside her, that grey wintry afternoon, four long miles through muddy roads and lanes, with “Clancy’s” bridle over his arm, had almost come to the same conclusion. At any rate, he told himself that she was the prettiest, pluckiest, and nicest girl it had ever been his luck to know. However an immediate visit to the other side of the county, drew him away from Betty’s unexpected fascinations—and they did not meet again for many weeks.

END OF VOL. I.

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